


Fantasia

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley’s Fall, Crowley’s pov, Dreams, Eventual Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Minor Injuries, Pining, Secrets, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, art/music appreciation, nebula/space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, he has inadvertently been injuring Crowley any time they touch. Not that Crowley minds, in fact he would prefer if their corporations touched more frequently, for now he will make do with his dreams.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 171
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Fantasia

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my dear friend Sqk, who helped cheerlead me and beta this even though I’ve been all over the place. You’ve kept me going and I appreciate all you have done ❤️
> 
> Thank you Hollow-head for the beautiful art, your visions were stunning. (Links in the end notes to all their gorgeous drawings, I have truly been spoilt!)
> 
> Thank you to flighty fiction for cheerleading me when I needed that boost!
> 
> And thank you to the organisers of this event. It has been mega fun and I appreciate all your hard work.
> 
> The links in the fic are for songs/artworks related, click away! Show them love of their tumblr [hollow-head](https://hollow-head.tumblr.com/post/190851724844/please-enjoy-this-lovely-good-omens-big-bang-fic)
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my own.

  
[ Fantasia ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2yJVk6jfa2xAEqVb2qDFgn)

  
  
  


**1867**

Crowley watched the painting as though it could come alive at any moment. Considering Alexandre Cabanel hadn’t even been there, he'd [ captured Eden ](https://www.gallery19c.com/artworks/9383/) incredibly well. The layers of chartreuse greens pillowed the suitably distraught Eve on the ground; every attempt to depict Eden came out as a glaucous illusion of the real thing, but no matter. It was still a glorious piece of art. He smiled a thin, delicate smile at Aziraphale's painted sword, glowing like anything. The hair and wings were the yellow and green-blues that Crowley had always associated with the angel and his beautiful multi-tonal eyes.

What caught Crowley’s attention most of all was how the artist had masterfully distinguished Aziraphale from the other angels with colour alone. The Principality was separate, rich in turquoise. The two angels who emerged from beneath God’s robes were indistinguishable as to where one began and another ended, a swarm of the same shades of burnt orange and umber as Him. Aziraphale’s colours contrasted — opposite on the colour wheel — because, obviously, his angel was incomparable to the rest of Heaven.

Crowley's smile widened at the way Aziraphale held his tunic. He could almost hear the _'oh dear'_ of Aziraphale pretending to be as shocked as the rest of them that the luscious apple had been eaten, when he had in fact spoken to the demon who had caused it moments before. It was an expression Crowley personally loved on the angel. His smile faltered, though, when his eyes lingered on Cabanel’s depiction of a devil in the bottom left corner. The verdant garden had been submerged in shadow where he skulked, an afterthought, forgotten beneath Eve’s lament.

“Well, he _did_ capture my eyes,” Crowley supposed, the yellow irises almost glowing in the dark corner of the painting. He did prefer the sly mischievous portrayal of demons in art. Especially since Alexandre had painted [ _Fallen Angel_ ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandre_Cabanel#/media/File%3AFallen_Angel_\(Alexandre_Cabanel\).jpg) twenty years previous. That one Crowley could not enjoy. It was too close, seeing the depth of the pain etched into the expression of the Fallen Angel (who just so happened to have auburn hair and blackened wings). It was too offensive to him. 

Crowley found emotional pain intolerable. Demons weren't supposed to have them, not any more. They weren't supposed to experience feelings like guilt and empathy. Most of the Fallen had managed to carve out that section of themselves and let it rot, replaced it with things like malice. Crowley hadn't quite let that part of him die, but rather put it on a secret hiatus. Without emotional pain, there would be no joy, and without joy, he wouldn’t be able to treasure Aziraphale and his company. 

Crowley did have the dubious luxury of physical pain becoming child’s play since his Fall (which he would argue was enough torment for an immortal lifetime). Daily human life caused him no harm. His minor demonic miracles ensured he could dodge a majority of accidents, and being inconveniently discorporated was more of a pain in the arse than anything else. Human forms were as delicate as they were sturdy. He'd had his fair share of run-ins with some unpleasant sensations, but none were a hindrance, not really. The only pain that was worth noting was the kind inflicted by Holiness. Crowley supposed it was logical. Holy water versus hellfire; light against shadow. It was glaringly obvious that of course angels could harm demons without much effort, but the type of pain was notable. It sank through his corporation and emanated along his very essence.

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, the Principality hurt Crowley every time they touched. It had happened a few times over the millennia. (Not nearly enough for Crowley, who still wouldn’t have complained if they touched more regularly).

Crowley had decided it was just the cost of being friends with the angel, and a small one at that, a reminder that he could not taint Aziraphale’s grace even if he wanted to (which he didn’t). What he wouldn’t admit to himself was that every ounce of pain he felt via the angel was _worth it._ Crowley would do it again and again. He had accepted the risks of their friendship centuries ago. How could he have resisted the temptation of getting to know an angel who just ‘gave away’ his sacred weapon from God? 

“Goodness, you were right. It is _marvellous.”_ The real Aziraphale spoke quietly, awed, from his spot at Crowley's right. 

Crowley, who had long ago mastered the art of following Aziraphale beneath his dark lenses without being noticed, stood still as he hummed in agreement. He was happy that Aziraphale came. Crowley had upset him gravely when he had asked for the Holy Water five years ago. His scar gently itched, meaning he wasn’t completely forgiven; the initial upset had caused an unpleasant burning that lasted for at least a year, so this was an improvement at any rate.

Aziraphale frowned and stepped closer to the painting. He was looking in the dark corner where the Python lay beside the devil’s foot. Crowley recognised that fussy look anywhere and waited patiently as Aziraphale looked hard at the painting. “Didn’t _quite_ capture the velvet of your black scales or your stunning red belly, though.” 

“ _Ngk,”_ Crowley choked, clearing his throat and running a self-conscious hand down the front of his jacket before regaining his composure. He tilted his chin up and pinched the corners of his lips down slightly. The angel was supposed to appreciate nature and all living things, so he was bound to say something like that about his serpent form eventually. 

“But look there, the clouds of the first rainfall coming in behind you."

"Ah! Wonderful." Aziraphale sounded pleasantly surprised, gently holding his hands behind his back and lost in thought. Crowley liked to think Aziraphale had the same thing on his mind, but somehow he doubted it. His reminiscent daydreams of their first meeting felt very one-sided. Perhaps over time it had gained a more ethereal and whimsical quality in his mind, or the true moment was just too grand, because no artist had ever _truly_ encapsulated Eden. Or the wall upon which the Serpent met the Guardian of the Eastern gate. In some ways, it was nice to have this secret, a tiny thread in the tapestry of time that only he and Aziraphale knew about.

~~~

The rain had been cold, in the Beginning. Crowley and Aziraphale had watched from the wall as Adam and Eve walked into the wilderness. The demon could sense Aziraphale’s overspilling worry for their well being. The angel’s trepidation on the human’s behalf had been palpable — how lonely and frightened they must have been. Aziraphale’s care for them had emanated from his grace and stuck to Crowley’s skin like salt air from a tormented sea. 

Crowley had been stood under the shroud of Aziraphale’s gold and cream wing. He'd wondered how things would have been if he had met Aziraphale sooner, when he was newly cast out of Heaven and feeling the fresh terror of being ripped from God’s grace. Would the angel’s empathy have tasted sweeter in the air if it was for him? Aziraphale had protected him from the rain as though the demon had a soul worth saving. Perhaps God was raining down Holy water for the trouble he had caused. 

Beneath the angel’s wing, Crowley had straightened his neck and swayed closer to Aziraphale’s protection. The first rain had brought forth the vivid recollection of his own Fall, his landing unforgiving and hard. Crowley had landed belly first on lava. His form had been stripped of all divinity and loneliness struck him so cold that when he struck the molten liquid it had frozen into sleek black lava glass, and shattered into shards. He writhed in agony, bathing in jet black splinters so sharp and hot that it cauterised any wound just to make a million more, scarring his belly red. His body was ice, his new cold blood so stark against the heat of a thousand suns that Crowley tried to shriek, to expel some of the agony, only for his forked tongue to hiss into the air and taste the smell of singed flesh, burnt hair and cloying sulphur. Crowley’s newborn hypersensitivity to scent had been overwhelming — the more he tried to scream, the stronger it became. It clouded his brain like locusts and every second had been exchanged for an eternity. 

As though Aziraphale had been able to sense Crowley’s trauma, the angel had moved closer and enclosed his wing more securely around him, clasping his hands together at his front tightly and watching the horizon of the barren Earth without a word. Crowley had never felt this safe before. If he ever did, in Heaven, he couldn’t remember. 

Then Aziraphale’s blessed brilliance had brushed against the edge of Crowley's wing. The demon should have recoiled from it. Sensing the Heavenly Glory trying to sear through him should have ignited any demon's common sense to run or fight. To stay still and _allow it,_ that was beyond foolish, especially since that wound had been deep enough to brand him. But something about Aziraphale had resonated deep within him, telling him to hold strong, to bear the pain and witness the beginning of the world they would grow to know together. The oil from Aziraphale's feathers had brushed against the leading edge of his coal black ones. Later that night, they had curled like dead spiders and molted, and after waiting for several years Crowley had given up on the feathers ever growing back. If he lifted the feathers above, on his alula, a small section of pale flesh was still visible where some of his primary converts should have been, signifying the day they'd met and forever linking him to the angel. To this day, Crowley treasured the pale white flesh amongst pitch dark feathers. A memento of the very beginning.

Aziraphale made a pleasant humming sound, which was so effective at drawing Crowley away from his painful memories that he sometimes wondered if Aziraphale did it on purpose, like he knew what he was thinking. 

“I wonder if their crepes are still as good as they were during the revolution?” Crowley pondered aloud, and Aziraphale turned to face him with his head tilted playfully to the side.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were trying to tempt me,” the angel said, not unkindly. 

“Les choses que tu veux sont-elles si mauvaises?” The words poured out of Crowley's mouth before he could stop them. He blamed the French air and culture being so alluring around them. Crowley swallowed thickly and hoped that Aziraphale’s French was still bad enough to encourage a beheading as the angel stopped and watched him curiously. Aziraphale blinked a few times before turning back to the painting, leaving just enough time for Crowley to wish that he actually had picked up some more of the language.

_______________

**1802**

Light was conjured from a thought. It began with a fingertip of will that brushed up against pitch blackness, bringing forth vibrancy in its wake. That thought cascaded a few degrees, gained momentum and spun into an array of turquoise and teal. It unfurled from a distant centre and bloomed outwards, opening and spread like a cereus flower. He pushed the warmest feelings from his heart and glitter rained down through the cool blue light. Some flecks burned so brilliantly they seared crosses through the darkness. Gliding closer, he watched the stars simmer into their own palette of warm, soft pinks. Gold clouds rippled as he laughed, swirling through his homemade sea and encapsulating his joy in creating beauty with limitless adoration. He could feel it, so soft and pleasant as he swam beneath the stars and above the clouds, stroking his essence between the layers of light and colour, the crisp golden whites and gentle blue-greens resonating within him. The contrast of soft brilliance enticed his love from deep within his soul, so grand he could barely grasp the concept of it.

The uncontained sea of twinkling light swelled around him, bathing him in its intensity. It was overwhelming, unyielding; it refused to be ignored and doused him in glorious happiness. Crowley was soaring as ecstasy filled him. 

Then, something snagged at his wing and he was thrown down with force. The colours shrank away as he descended, his perspective shifting as he rolled to his front and was faced with pitch black oblivion, shards of black glistening below him. He clutched at his belly, and fell. 

Crowley jolted awake and found himself breathing raggedly. His wing throbbed in the ether, exactly where he'd been pulled from his dream. It wasn't long before his dream induced fatigue and horror shifted to real world panic. 

_"Aziraphale."_

*

"-after I thought my day couldn't get any worse, I got yet another rude letter from someone demanding to buy the rarest of my books and if I didn’t he would _damn_ me to _hell!"_ Aziraphale's brows were knitted in despair as he turned to Crowley on the park bench in search of solace. 

Crowley's brow crept up over the frame of his glasses. His shoulders sank and he sighed. He had been certain it was an emergency. The scar on his wing only ever throbbed like that when something was gravely wrong with Aziraphale.

"You woke me from one of my most—" Crowley made a strangled noise as he stopped the word _intimate_ from flying out of his mouth. He waved his hand as though wafting the air for some inspiration. All it did was give his cheeks a chance to warm through. It wasn't a _conscious_ decision that the nebula he swam in was a palette of everything to do with Aziraphale, even if he did lucidly decide to swim in it. "—my _dreaming_ for _that."_

Aziraphale frowned at the floor before catching Crowley’s eyes through his glasses. " _I_ didn't wake you, dear boy. I believe that you were the one that came to me."

_Ah._

_Don’t panic,_ he told himself, _it’s nothing to shed skin over, only his heart pounding in his chest hard enough for the whole of St James’ park to hear._

"Oh. 'S hard to remember, with the millennia of meetups and what have you." Crowley pushed his agitation aside and feigned a lazy drawl.

"Well, what were you dreaming of?" Aziraphale was wearing his puzzled expression as he asked, hands flat on his thighs, well kempt trousers not daring to crease beneath his palms as he continued to carefully watch the demon. 

Crowley paused. He'd decided long ago that deceit wasn't a flavour he particularly liked when it came to the angel, but it beat an outright lie if he could help it. To this day he always struggled to bend the truth for Aziraphale, favouring diversion, a tactic which left a far better taste in his mouth. 

"Oh, you know, dream things. You've dreamed, haven't you?" 

"No, I'm afraid I haven’t." 

_Fuck_. There it was again. That shift in expression that made Crowley's chest feel like he couldn't quite get enough air in. The silence that stretched between them was thick and horrible, so against his better judgement, Crowley broke it.

"It's a bit like reading a book or admiring a painting," Crowley offered, and Aziraphale's face perked up a little. "Only of your mind's own making, not really much choice over what it gives you, to be honest."

“Oh.” Aziraphale considered this. Crowley recognised that look. The curiosity glinted in his eyes, like it was something he wanted to taste _(devour,_ Crowley corrected himself. He had seen that look plenty of times but usually in an eatery of some kind _)_. “Do you remember them?” 

“Sometimess,” Crowley said, the white lie slipping out like a knee jerk instinct. He was surprised at how easily he managed it. He could recall _all_ of his dreams; it was one of the main reasons why he loved sleeping so much. Some were about his Fall, but most often they were filled to the brim with everything to do with the angel. Aziraphale looked at Crowley longingly. (For a scrap of a dream he may have had. Not for him, of course.) How could he admit it? Telling Aziraphale he remembered would result in having to confess what they were about, and it wouldn't be as simple as telling a story or viewing artwork. It would be a Pandora’s Box. His dreams were loaded with too many feelings that, once unpacked, would surely drown him or, worse, change Aziraphale's opinion of him. The thought of sharing _those,_ of exposing raw nerves that, even under an armour of secrecy, felt electrified in Aziraphale’s presence — it would surely discorporate him. And that was without even considering their respective head offices. 

Crowley cringed and Aziraphale nodded gently, looking wistful. He reset his face back to neutral and tried to swallow the lump of regret in his throat. The pain in the scar on his wing didn’t ebb away.

____________

  
  


**1900**

Crowley's heart was in a vice. A cold, angry grip had laced through his ribcage like ivy and constricted. The feeling was so intense he felt the need to physically claw at his chest to dampen it down, anything to ease the pressure of it. He even considered bringing his wings onto this plane and flaring them like an angry Betta fish in the hope that some of _this_ , whatever this was, would flow from between his feathers. Crowley craved to touch the scar at the top of his left wing, where it felt abnormally _cold_.

Despite Crowley’s internal battle, the only thing that showed externally on his thin, angular frame was the shadow of his throat flickering as he gave a hard swallow.

If this was how he felt just _seeing_ Aziraphale like this, what could it be like behind those bright oceanic eyes? Did it feel this bad, or worse? What if Crowley was just getting the radiation of it and Aziraphale housed the fury of the catalyst?

Aziraphale's polite frame looked rigid, as if a stiff breeze might sweep the angel along with it. The back of the bookshop never looked so glum, even with the candlelight bringing warm oranges to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley knew this day would come. It was precisely why he constantly reminded Aziraphale not to get attached. 

However, he never expected it to affect the angel _this_ much, could never anticipate it overflowing from Aziraphale and swarming over to Crowley with such intensity. Aziraphale had never truly experienced grief. For an angel, who knew that most souls would go to heaven, grief was redundant. When Poe had passed away half a century ago (mysteriously, as was his nature) it was bad enough. In comparison to this, that was only a warm up of Aziraphale’s potential for bearing sorrow. Crowley understood that Aziraphale had truly cared for Wilde, so much so that the demon was awash with empathy for seeing his angel so distraught.

What made the whole thing so much worse was watching Aziraphale trying to hide his pain. As though he weren’t allowed to feel sadness. If Crowley thought about it, he could imagine how the other angels would not approve, and how that was causing Aziraphale extra torment at not being able to grieve openly. He wasn’t having any of that. The demon stood closer as he composed himself: slow inhale through his nose, long exhale through parted lips. Crowley’s hands clenched and unclenched. He had to do it. He had to. He watched his angel, a lone beacon of agony, a concertina of grief and suffering, and could no longer watch without doing something. Crowley wasn’t scared, so to speak. More preparing himself for the consequences that were bound to follow what he was about to do. To hell with the consequences. 

He closed the gap between them, toe to toe, and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, gently sweeping away the streams of tears with his palm and pressing the angel’s damp face to his chest. Gestures of comfort weren’t for demons, Crowley should have been fighting his very foundations to initiate it, but for Aziraphale it came without question. This felt natural.

As Crowley held Aziraphale firmly, the angel began to shudder. He placed a hand on those soft curls, and with the other he went to dry the tear stains on the back of Aziraphale’s coat, though he knew from the sensation of a thousand needles burning into his palm that it was too late. 

Angel tears could carve paths into mountains and, comparatively, Crowley’s palm was no obstacle. The burn made easy work of the top layer of epidermis and travelled through to the dermis, skinning his palm with awful efficiency. Crowley carefully closed his hand on the damage so he wouldn’t stain Aziraphale’s coat and turned his focus back to comforting Aziraphale. He pulled the angel closer, gently squeezing Aziraphale tight against him, where he finally heard the angel sob.

Somewhere in the ether, beyond this plane, he felt Aziraphale’s wings glittering like fireflies. If it were any other angel the sensation would register like a stinging nettle, a signifying pain for the demon to get away. But to Crowley, Aziraphale’s wings were warm and beautiful against his. He craved any connection, no matter how small. The burning swarmed over his occult form, flaring and raging inside of him. Crowley ignored it all and held Aziraphale tighter.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you, Angel.” 

___

  
  


**1941**

The rubble of the church was strangely gratifying to walk over. It could be the dust of nazi bones giving the shifting ground an extra satisfying to crunch, or just the fact that it was no longer consecrated. The soles of his feet no longer scalded like a mocking parody of burning his _actual soul_ (if he had one, he wasn't sure to be honest).

Crowley felt bloody exhausted. Tracking down the angel and keeping him out of trouble was a full time job. He was lucky most of the horrific events that happened were down to the humans and he could pass them off as his own doing to the Head Office. He passed the bag to Aziraphale with a smile. “Little demonic miracle of my own.” Aziraphale’s finger grazed his hand and Crowley hid his wince with practiced ease. “Lift home?”

Crowley sat at the wheel of his Bentley, pressing his burning hand against the cool glass as he waited. Aziraphale was taking a long time to gather his bearings, Crowley thought. The angel _had_ been double crossed at the last moment and to think that he had almost lost all of his most prized books, (the same books which irritated Crowley's scar with the angel's fretting on multiple occasions). It must have been a lot to take in, that they hadn’t been blown to smithereens. The passenger door opened and prompted the engine to start 

“Ready?” he asked Aziraphale in lieu of waving a hand in front of the angel’s face, as tempting as that was. It seemed to do the trick, snapping Aziraphale from staring in a daze.

“Pardon? Oh. Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled, holding the case of books in his lap as though they were precious. He looked at Crowley, eyes scanning him quickly, then the bag in his lap before looking back to Crowley’s glasses. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Oh yeah.” He drawled, a sing-song tone dancing across the vowels. “Bombing churches is a favourite pastime." 

“But, _your hand-_ ” Aziraphale started, frowning in confusion. “Was it like that a moment ago? When you handed me the case?” Crowley’s heart was subjected to a severe gravitational pull as Aziraphale leaned across to have a closer look.

“It’s alright, Angel. Really-” The starting vowel got stuck in his mouth and he filled in the space by waving his hand, but it was too late, Aziraphale had reached out to take Crowley’s right wrist and Crowley hissed, sucking in air through his teeth at the contact. The skin was searing right before the angel’s eyes _._ Aziraphale retracted his hand just as quick as Crowley had when they exchanged the bag and looked astonished at the demon — no, _mortified._ Aziraphale pinned himself back against the passenger window _._

_Go—Sa— Fuck._

“Crowley, what- what is this?” Aziraphale asked, mouth gaping and closing a few times, looking at his own hand as though it had betrayed him.

“Just a little Holy sting, ’s nothing, really.” Crowley muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

“From me?” 

Crowley cursed silently. He blamed the bad luck of bombing a church. He hated churches.

Hesitantly, he tried waving his hand at the whole thing, wanting it to be swept under some proverbial rug. This was ridiculous, no reason for Aziraphale to be upset, no problem at all, it _wasn't_. 

“How long has this been happening? Have I always harmed you in this way?” 

“No, nonono. Well, not always. Only if we touch _-"_ Aziraphale's eyes widened and Crowley quickly hissed _"-sssskin,_ if we have skin contact." The demon swallowed thickly. Explaining this felt like digging his own grave, only he was already sinking as he dug. 

What if Aziraphale avoided him after this?

"It's honestly _fine_ ," Crowley said firmly as he pulled away from the ruins of the church at speed. 

Aziraphale said nothing in the car all the way back to the bookshop, and that hurt more than the flesh burning on his hand. He wanted to soothe the scar on his wing that was tingling with pins and needles, but more than that, he wished he could soothe the forlorn expression the angel was wearing as he clutched the bag of books with a white knuckled grip.

______________

**1967**

“What are you doing here?” Crowley got into the driver’s seat and there beside him was Aziraphale, stiff backed and serious looking. It had been over two decades since the incident after the church and Crowley was just relieved to see that familiar face. 

“I needed a word with you.” _Thank someone,_ Crowley thought. They hadn't spoken about what happened at the church. Aziraphale could barely look anywhere but out of the windscreen of the Bentley. Conversely, all Crowley had done since Aziraphale had sat in the car was look at the angel.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“I work in Soho. I hear things. I hear that you’re setting up a… caper to rob a church.” Crowley finally looked away. “Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.” 

_Not seeing_ you _again would destroy me completely._

“You told me what you think a hundred and five years ago.” Crowley recalled the sting of their fallout. 

_Fraternising?_

**_I don’t need you._ **

“And I haven’t changed my mind. But I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous. So…” Aziraphale handed over the most Aziraphale-looking thing Crowley had ever seen. A quaint tartan flask. “You can call off the robbery.” Crowley looked in disbelief from the angel to the flask. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

He took it from him carefully, as though the fussy angel wouldn’t have cleaned the container thoroughly five times to make sure there was no residue of holy water along the outside, but it was Aziraphale's care not to touch Crowley’s hands as he passed it that was poignant. 

“It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

“After everything you said.” Crowley's voice was small. This wasn’t about the holy water to him anymore. Aziraphale nodded quickly and continued staring out of the window. Crowley remembered how angry he had gotten with the way Aziraphale had said _fraternising_. It sounded wrong, like their friendship was nothing but a dirty little secret convenience for work, with nothing else to it. The demon could remember the way he had spat it back like it venom, that he had plenty of others to fraternise with. It was an unpleasant memory, and the anger had dissipated over the years into a stagnant sadness. “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.”

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” Crowley’s shoulders sank a little, brows knitted together. If he couldn’t say thank you, or offer a lift, there wasn’t much he could do as a gesture for Aziraphale. (Well, there was plenty but nothing the angel would appreciate _._ ) “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Crowley’s heart was in his throat, beating hard. He wanted those things more than anything. He wanted so badly to reach out, take Aziraphale’s hand in his, gently cup his cheek and tell him _yes, anything,_ but something about this moment felt skittish; a bubble that could easily burst in this tender attempt at what was possibly true reconciliation. 

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

_Don’t say my name like that,_ he thought and held his breath to refrain from saying it. When Aziraphale disappeared from his car the exhale that followed was frustratingly shaky. Crowley felt his scar in the ether beyond slowly go numb; it was a frightening sensation, like watching a plant he had meticulously cared for shrivel and wilt. He would much rather have burning pain, something to grasp and distract him, or anything else instead of _this._ A void where there was once something powerful. He felt like he’d been stripped of something vital, and it was too reminiscent _._ He laced his fingers together and squeezed them tightly. Crowley realised now, with some horror, that the familiar ache had almost been his tether to the angel, a connection which now felt irrevocably severed _._

Crowley tried to ground himself, staring at the way his fingers interlocked, and he immediately felt the knot between his brows as he frowned. His hands were white with tension as he lifted his arm up to his mouth, as he took in a sharp breath, hands now shaking as he held them tighter. He stopped, remaining perfectly still as his thoughts flooded back to that familiar work of art, [ _Fallen Angel_ ](https://www.wikiart.org/en/alexandre-cabanel/fallen-angel) _._ Crowley gently rubbed his thumb against the back of his own hand, and wondered if there was a time in which Azirapale would ever have let him hold his hand like this. Perhaps he would be bles- lucky- enough to dream of it at least. That would be enough for him.

His exhale was a gentle sigh, and the world simmered back into his senses. The rain pattered against the roof of his Bentley. Crowley placed the thermos where Aziraphale had been sitting and looked out at the reflection of distorted neon lights on the tarmac. 

___________

**1973**

Claps, drums, bass pedal; Crowley felt the [drum beat grow louder](https://open.spotify.com/track/6hPAoJvuIsgPlxnoZnjPRk) in tandem with the brightness of the stage lights, but it was when the guitars ripped through and echoed across the hippodrome that he tore his glasses from his face and stared. Lights flashed boldly and a silhouette danced between them across the stage, shimmering as the sequins reflected the light. He moved with the chords and riffs as though possessed by the music, like nothing could contain such an entity until a spotlight froze him in place and his voice rose up and he _sang._

What a voice. He could sing like Crowley had never heard before, damn all the choirs of heaven. His skin rippled pleasantly like the surface of a lake when disturbed by a pebble and he found himself clutching the back of his neck where he feared a few scales may have emerged over the collar of his leather jacket. He flipped up the lapels to hide it, and turned his attention back to the stage. The raging music dulled down to let the voice shine over him, only to build again. Crowley realised that had been waiting for just this, all these years. He didn’t think it could build any more than this. How could it peak any higher than this perfection? And yet, the humans had finally done it now, he knew. Music was evolving with the decades, and he was finally submerged in the perfection of human inspiration and devious talent. 

_“_ _You know you'll never leave me_

_Please will you direct me in the right way”_

Crowley’s iris expanded until they looked almost human. He couldn’t get enough of the progression of the song, switching from moment to moment, erratic and utterly perfect. Two solos were battling for the limelight and both were succeeding before the chords broke them off. The drums and voices grew erratic, cascading all around the Golders Green Hippodrome before thickening with bass and letting it all build and heighten. 

_“Mama I'm gonna try behave_

_All day long_

_Mama I'm gonna be your slave_

_All day long_

_I'm gonna serve you 'til your dying day”_

Crowley's mouth was dry. He realised he’d been gaping.

_“Liar liar everything you do is sin_

_Liar nobody believes you”_

This was, to him, what books must be to Aziraphale. He’d finally found it. Music had always fascinated Crowley, but nothing could bind him like Aziraphale to pages. Like humans needed air. Like Crowley _needed Aziraphale._ Oh, this would do nicely. A distraction, something beautiful and inspiring. That voice reverberated through Crowley and ignited _feelings,_ ones that could combat the turmoil he had been drowning in _._ Crowley’s eyes glistened and his body was compelled to move to the beat— he felt like he could finally breathe (in the metaphorical sense, of course, because he knew he really didn’t need to breathe at all). His chest expanded and took in the atmosphere and endorphins all around him, and for the first time since the Beginning he hardly noticed his wings in the ether. That numbness that he had been feeling growing stronger over the century was completely forgotten. It was miraculous. He let the musical tide wash over him, and basked in the catharsis of the lyrics. 

**__________**

**1999-2000**

“Earth has come a long way since Eden,” Crowley speculated, admiring the bustle of life, vibrant and buzzing with excitement all around. He had chosen the perfect space, far back and high up away from the crowds but still able to view the event perfectly. He liked to think that original sin had led to this, people being sick from drinking too much alcohol, hugging each other and passing cigarettes between them. Perfectly imperfect. The rooftop he and Aziraphale were on gave them the perfect view of Big Ben.

“That it has, dear boy.” Aziraphale smiled, and the way he did it reminded Crowley of that nervous energy he had for Adam and Eve as they ventured out with his sword in hand. Crowley refilled their glasses with the Chiante.

“Humans really do have the wildest imaginations,” Crowley sighed.

“Did you know that they have traditions for welcoming in the New Year?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

“And they’ll keep thinking of them. Traditions I mean. They’ll come up with anything, it’s what they do.” Crowley took a sip of wine somewhat nervously as he wondered what on Earth Aziraphale was playing at. He could only think of one thing the angel could be hinting at, but it couldn’t possibly be _that._ He leaned over the balcony and saw the clock only had a minute to go and decided to embrace the slither of courage in his gut. “What New Year’s tradition do they have, then?” 

“To kiss,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. Crowley stayed facing the tower, but turned his eyes to watch Aziraphale. He could hardly believe it. The thrum of his heartbeat felt deafening in his ears, though it couldn't have been as loud as he thought because when he didn’t say anything he could hear the angel add more quietly: “Lest your following New Year be lonely, apparently.”

“‘S that right?” 

They had kissed before. If you could even call them kisses. It was well before Aziraphale had realised that if he touched Crowley he burned him. It had to have been at least a century ago, if not longer. They had been very brief gestures of greeting when it was in fashion to do so, so chaste that Crowley hardly felt them, let alone enough to give his skin the time to burn with it. Crowley could swear the angel had only ever kissed the air beside his cheek. He could hardly believe Aziraphale would mention this now, after all this time.

“Are you interested in partaking this year?” Aziraphale asked, fussing with his sleeves, then his lapels. For once, Crowley couldn’t quite read him. 

“If you’d like, Angel.” He said it coolly, despite being very hot under his collar and the world seeming to tilt off its axis by a fair amount. Perhaps Aziraphale meant kissing with the humans, and this was all a huge misunderstanding.

“Wouldn’t want any loneliness next year, after all.” Aziraphale smiled, small and tight. “Time goes very slowly when one is lonely.” 

His heart gave way— too heavy in his chest— at the remark, the idea that his angel could be _lonely_ enough to want to ward it away with a superstition pained him. Crowley’s brows were knitted, elbow still resting on the ledge of the balcony when he turned to face Aziraphale properly. Aziraphale was right there. He took Crowley's glasses off when Big Ben started chiming. Between the ring of Big Ben and the beginning of the twelve _dongs_ that would mark the coming of midnight there was a moment of utter silence, and in that silence the angel leaned towards him and Crowley’s mouth parted in awe. Aziraphale’s lips met his cheek. It was delicate, but held purpose, such a soft but firm gesture that pinned Crowley like a butterfly to cork. Big Ben’s clock rang out but Crowley couldn’t hear it. Aziraphale parted by the third _bong,_ fireworks cascading all around and flickering off the angel’s face in a flourish of colours. They stayed still, toe to toe. Life bustled around them, as it always did, yet the angel and the demon remained the same.

Crowley wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Aziraphale and ask for another. 

Aziraphale looked sad and disappointed.

“I shouldn’t have…” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and he couldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. The words stung more than the skin of his cheek.

“Happy new year, Angel.”

**______________**

**2008**

The birth of the antichrist was unsettling to say the least. Strangely. it felt like surveillance had been put into place for Crowley, and he supposed it was the same for Aziraphale too. Crowley felt more surveilled in one night than he had in a hundred years, Hastur and Ligur breathing down his neck tended to give that impression on a good day. On a bad day like this it had the power to make him feel more visible than ever. Throughout history and the birth of humanity, he had enjoyed relative freedom. Sure, hell liked to check on him — namely, the demons who checked up on him were the ones who didn’t like him (the result, Crowley assumed, of him enjoying the humans too much, taking on too many of their quirks). 

Since Satan had decided to plagiarize the birth of Jesus for his own spawn, he’d felt like hell was slowly closing in on him. They were lusting for war so much that it reminded Crowley of the humans themselves; he wished he could say that to Hastur and watch the demon's face react to it like sucking a lemon. They didn't limit their imaginations in contacting him either; cinema was gatecrashed, and game show hosts were puppeteered by Dukes of hell live on TV (scarily, the studio audience didn’t even blink). In Crowley's opinion they took it too far when they interrupted Freddie on his car radio. He could feel his whole world shrinking, and what made it even smaller was the extra caution he had to take with Aziraphale. They had to see each other now more than ever, to try and comprehend the impending doom of the earth. Yet to meet now was to risk thrice the danger. Their interactions had been rocky since 1967, but the addition of the devil's child made tensions rise even more between their friendship. 

The only thing they’d found to break the icy distress was getting rat-arsed in the back of the bookshop.

Crowley was thoroughly lubricated, emotionally speaking. He remembered it taking him a phenomenal amount of time to budge Aziraphale, in all of his priss obedience, to come to their Arrangement. But he had a feeling, though this was a bigger ‘deal’, it would only take a fraction of the time to convince the angel to work together to prevent the end of the world.

Music was just the tip of the iceberg. Mentioning composers that he knew Aziraphale liked was just a little warm up, a canape so that Aziraphale could convince himself that he was okay so long as he got a main course. As soon as he mentioned _food and books,_ well, the angel was as good as his. After Aziraphale ate lunch (and, possibly, thought the whole time about what life would be like without scrumptious lunches) he asked: _What are you in the mood for now?_ Crowley couldn’t help but fidget; he always liked when the angel suggested doing more together.

“Alcohol. Quite _extraordinary_ amounts of alcohol.”

In the end, to win Aziraphale over, he posed it as he had with their arrangement. To essentially neutralise one another, good hindering evil as it should. Aziraphale wasn’t going to defy the ineffable plan, not when it was part of his angelic duty to thwart wiles, so Crowley posed that of _course_ he would teach the boy evil, and it only made _sense_ for Aziraphale to counter him. 

“If you put it that way… Heaven couldn’t actually object if I was thwarting you.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and glossy Crowley could hardly contain his excitement (and massive relief) that the angel was looking _keen_ about this idea.

“No. Be a real feather in your wing.” Crowley stared at Aziraphale, which felt awfully exposed without his glasses. He managed to contain his expression, to not come across as too elated so as not to put Aziraphale off. He watched the angel frown slightly, heart freezing momentarily, before Aziraphale leaned forwards with his hand outstretched. Crowley didn't hesitate as he met the angel’s hand with his own for a brief but firm shake, and Aziraphale was still watching him. He was happy they got this fleeting, if not purposeful, touch. It was over quickly. If Crowley knew he would have had the opportunity to touch the palm of Aziraphale's hand, he'd have basked in it for longer. 

_______________

  
  


**2019**

Crowley couldn’t believe Aziraphale had threatened him with _that._ Never talk to him again? The pleasure of conversation was all they had, since touch was off the table. What else could they do? Stand around and just stare at one another? 

Do something or, essentially, _lose him_.

Crowley looked down at the ground he was kneeling on. He scowled at it like the very concrete was the one who’d done all of this. Then, with both hands he pulled every ounce of energy he had from it, drawing it up from hell and into the air with everything he could, like splashing a nebula into the sky with his bare hands. Adam’s essence was pliant and calm, easy to bring along — Aziraphale’s, on the other hand, was heavy with divinity, his own occult energy incompatible, but Crowley fought that minor inconvenience and brought the angel up with them. 

Crowley was doing something. Somewhere, he felt guilty for putting this onto a child, but he believed in him. He had to, to save the Earth and everything else that came with it.

“But I’m just a kid.” 

“But that’s not a bad thing to be, Adam. You know, I was scared that you’d be Hell incarnate. I hoped you’d be Heaven incarnate. But you’re not either of those things, you’re much better. You’re human incarnate.”

Crowley was astounded by how beautifully Aziraphale had explained it, all those books of his must be to blame. All that panic, eleven years of running riot and playing godfathers and magicians and gardeners, and he quelled it all in a moment. Aziraphale had soothed the frantic energy jittering through him and replaced it with hope. Crowley felt his love for the angel burst like a solar flare, and had to pause for a moment to focus so that he could keep time frozen for a little longer. 

“Adam, reality will listen to you right now. You can change things.”

“And whatever happens, for good or for evil, we’re beside you.” Aziraphale took Adam Young’s hand, and Crowley took the other, connecting the three of them, a triquetra of powers from three different corners. 

They stayed strong by the boy’s side, to either the bitter end or the new beginning. Adam looked to the angel and the demon over his shoulders. He seemed to want to say or do something, but there was no time for that with how quickly Crowley was losing power. 

“I’m going to start time. You won’t have long to do whatever you’re going to do. Do it quickly.”

*

When Adam had rebooted reality, he’d changed both the past and the present. So, on the following Sunday, people woke to find a world that was almost, but not entirely, the one that they used to inhabit. People who’d been dead were now alive, and things that were broken had now been miraculously restored, though no one seemed to have noticed the particulars.

Crowley had just a moment to hear that Aziraphale may have caught on to it.

“Do you understand what happened yesterday?” Aziraphale asked him, doing a very good job of looking less prim as he took his ice lolly; Crowley supposed inhabiting a demon's body would loosen him up a bit, like putting on a costume. 

“Well, I understand some of it. But some of it, well, it’s just a little bit too—” Crowley found using Aziraphale’s voice distracting, hearing it in his head and feeling the vibrations of it in the throat he wore. Before he could finish it was too late to chat about it. Before he knew it, he was being dragged up to Heaven to face his demons.

*

It had only been a few weeks since, and the dust had settled, but Crowley felt the opposite. Completely _un_ settled. That sickly closed-in feeling had evaporated and he and Aziraphale felt more free now than ever. Something was really starting to grate on the demon, though. He should have been happy that Aziraphale wanted to continue their companionship, but he couldn’t believe he’d missed the window of opportunity when it came to him. At the time it had been so innocuous, but now? Now it was mocking him with its obviousness. 

“Aziraphale, did you notice?” Crowley asked cautiously. He lifted his hand, which had been tapping on the arm of the couch. It was the same one he’d used to take Aziraphale’s hand on the bench in St James’ Park. That was when he should have noticed it initially, he couldn’t help but doubt, now. At the time, there had been several other things on his mind. Such as averting the apocalypse and surviving holy water and hellfire. “Did you notice the thing? Well, the lack of it when we uh...” 

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley on his sofa, whose habit of coming frequently to the bookshop over the past eleven years had doubled this past month and a bit. “Hm?” 

“When we changed back, we shook hands.” Crowley spoke slowly.

"Yes, dear boy. And we have several times in the past." Aziraphale frowned, taking another sip of wine. “We shook hands when we agreed on stopping armageddon.” The angel spoke matter-of-factly, but he wasn’t really paying attention to what Crowley was hinting to.

Crowley stood, which was a loose term to use for slinking off the couch and coiling back up as he straightened his spine. He made a beeline to Aziraphale. The energy with which he did it made the angel's brows shoot up to his white hairline. 

Crowley held his hand out. 

"What for?" 

"Old time's sake?" Crowley tried. A hand held out for longer than a few seconds without being met was nerve wracking at best. He watched Aziraphale’s confused expression carefully.

"No," Aziraphale said quietly, and the demon watched as realisation crossed over his features, then mild sorrow. Which did nothing to help Crowley's heart where it was burning up on his sleeve. 

"If I could just..." He sighed, knowing the tone of the angel's voice too well to think his effort was anything but futile. He swallowed, keeping strong because he had to get that window back, the opportunity he’d missed.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shook his head, standing and cupping his hands in front of himself. He looked forlorn, and Crowley couldn’t stand it.

"Aziraphale." It was barely a whisper as Crowley let his hand stay up even longer. It was painful at this point. His hand was no longer held firmly out to shake but instead was palm up, in offering. It had fallen, just a little, from the raised hope of before. Perhaps if it didn't have too far to fall, it wouldn't hurt as much. 

The angel shook his head again. “I can’t. I’ll burn you.” So soft. Too soft. Crowley winced at the tone, taking one (too shaky for his liking) inhale and went to let his hand fall completely. Almost on a reflex, Aziraphale caught it.

Crowley had poured into his palm every fleeting moment since the beginning of time between them, had condensed them all into a single feeling. Every moment that had shifted the tides of his damned soul, for better or for worse — the bandstand, the songs he had inspired to be written for Aziraphale that swelled like the angel's smile. 

Crowley tried to show how the angel ignited every nerve a human body was capable of feeling. How every sensation Aziraphale had given him was worth it all, the pain, the heartache, it was all a reminder of something so large and miraculous he could hardly contain it. Aziraphale mistook Crowley's trembling for pain and went to let go of his hand, but Crowley clasped the angel’s tighter in reassurance. The angel's hand must be naturally open to love, delivering miracles had to leave Aziraphale especially responsive to sensing love. Crowley could see it register behind those bright eyes. 

Crowley held firm as he silently told every story of every dream he had. Poems of angel wings, epics that birthed countless human inspirations. Love was no word to describe it, this all consuming universe of how Crowley felt for Aziraphale. He dowsed Aziraphale in it and only until the angel managed to wrench away did Crowley notice he was panting. Aziraphale looked shocked and appalled, betrayed, even. 

"Look!" Crowley held his hands up and neither were damaged, Aziraphale scowled as he moved closer to inspect, but not touch.

Only now did fear begin to rise in Crowley as the hope had before., He had exposed himself to the angel. All of it, he left no room for doubt in his angel's mind. Now, those fair eyebrows were turned down with such concern that he felt like he wanted the earth to swallow him. 

“Are we…" Crowley swallowed and tried again, slurring the words with feigned nonchalance. "Still on the... same side? Aziraphale?” 

"I hope so." Aziraphale replied. Crowley watched the rise and fall of the angel's chest which seemed significant somehow in the moment. "I do hope so."

________

  
  


Honestly, since Crowley had basically confessed his undying love for Aziraphale in a silent handshake, he wasn't quite sure what had changed, but something had. 

They were seated in a booth on the upper floor of the restaurant, huge glass windows giving a gorgeous view of the bustling city that seemed quiet and peaceful from this side of the glass. The streetlamps and car lights were like urban fireflies. Crowley had realised a long time ago that although London had held some of the more chaotic years of history, he did enjoy it. Taking in the view like this was a reminder. 

Aziraphale topped up their wine glasses and Crowley's attention was brought back to the table. He smiled at the angel and lifted the glass before taking a sip. Beautiful full bodied plum flavours glossed his tongue. Sharing the same taste in wine with Aziraphale was strangely intimate, but he supposed it was inevitable. Crowley drifted off thinking of the first taste of pomegranate wine they’d shared in Israel all those millennia ago, how clever he thought saké was when it changed flavour as it went from warm to cool. 

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin when Aziraphale's calf brushed his own under the table. 

Aziraphale said nothing as he tucked into his entrée; Crowley sipped his wine as he tried not to think about how the angel's calf felt like it was pressing firmer against his own, almost certainly deliberate as the angel drew it back to gently card down his leg again, like bowing a violin. Crowley's heart fluttered and he held the stem of his glass even tighter, Aziraphale beamed at him. 

It had to be a fluke, he was thinking far _far_ too much about it. But the more Crowley tried not to think about it the more he thought about it. More moments seemed to crop up and Crowley was beginning to run out of excuses as to why Aziraphale was… _Touching him._

The first visit to the cinema since Hell was leaving Crowley the hell alone was amazing. He could bask in the knowledge that no rotten demons were going to ask him for anything, and a bonus, Aziraphale was here with him too. 

He felt Aziraphale's hand graze his and looked at the armrest. The angel was gently coaxing Crowley's hand with his little finger, but when he tried to check what Aziraphale was after he realised that the angel was still watching the movie. His pinky was still gently touching Crowley's hand, so the demon let his hand go pliant and was rewarded with the angel brazenly lacing his fingers into Crowley's. 

The demon couldn't be more grateful for the dark room as he fidgeted his whole body at the feeling, imagining how red his cheeks must be was only making him even redder. Crowley's hand remained completely still, but his stomach felt like it was floating and sinking at the same time. He disguised it by crossing his leg at the knee and resting his other hand over his mouth, leaning on the other arm rest with his elbow. If a human paid close attention, they would wonder how he could contort his spine to that degree and claim to be comfortable, Crowley paid even less attention to this than usual though. He was in ecstasy, lost in a touch he had craved for so long that he wanted the film to last all day. With a minor demonic miracle he could do so, he knew. The problem would be Aziraphale. He wondered what Aziraphale was doing this for. Did he really want to? Or was this sympathy, for knowing how Crowley felt about him? The lights came up after what felt like too long and too short a time, and Crowley parted their hands as he stood and straightened out his jacket. 

_______

Aziraphale had taken to reading more in Crowley's company since they averted the apocalypse. It was nice, because when the angel was relaxed with his cocoa and a hardback dusky book, Crowley found it was the perfect conditions for a cosy nap. 

The demon had had his eyes shut for a while now and his breathing had slowed, drifting off to the rhythm of soothing sounds. Nothing could beat the noise of Aziraphale's pages hushing as he turned them and the cocoa being sipped against a porcelain mug. 

He was broken from his almost hypnotised relaxation when he felt the angel shuffle a little, as per tradition for long reading sessions, only the angel's arm came around Crowley's shoulders to hug him close before Aziraphale's hand rested on his head. 

It was hard to keep his breathing steady and get back into the zen of earlier when the angel was so _hot_. It was gorgeous, his body heat radiating along Crowley's side and a firm weight around his shoulder, but it was the delicate brushing of fingertips against his scalp that made Crowley leap from the sofa. 

"Nng— _Aaangel._ Are you doing this for my sake? Because, it's fine if you are but you really truly don't have to."

"Sorry?" Aziraphale frowned, Crowley was standing in the middle of the back room in the bookshop, looking worn out and nervous. To Aziraphale, it seemed to come from absolutely nowhere. 

"You felt what I feel or what have you," Crowley started and when Azirpahale looked just as confused he groaned at having to elaborate. "When I shook your hand? And tried to show you that you don't burn me anymore." 

"Yes. I felt it." The angel said it quietly and Crowley's heart sank. He nodded, completely convinced that he had tainted their friendship forever. 

"So, you don't need to, y'know. Touch me, if you don't want to. Don't be doing it for my sake."

"I won't." Aziraphale's frown seemed to deepen. 

"Right. Glad that's cleared up then." Crowley cleared his throat and offered a weak smile. 

Aziraphale returned it, equally as weak. 

"Quite." Aziraphale stood slowly, and walked up to where Crowley was standing. The demon realised then that he must look at a loss, stood aimlessly in the middle of the room like this, which had to explain why Aziraphale took Crowley's hand, where it lay down by his side. Aziraphale held it carefully and, before Crowley's mind could stop reeling and he could have a proper go at Aziraphale to elaborate on what he had just said, the angel pressed up onto his toes to kiss the corner of Crowley's mouth. Crowley's eyes widened behind their frames and his mouth fell open. He made a couple of faltering sounds. 

"Oh." Aziraphale retracted his hand and stood back, fussing with his ring and looking so apologetic that he need not have said "I do apologise, Crowley, I- I don't—" 

Glitching in real time wasn’t something Crowley was used to. He had a lot of practice being cool and collected, so now he was lifting his hand to speak and shutting his jaw to lean back and turn his head — in other circumstances it would be quite funny, but right now it was concerning to the angel. 

With a shaking hand Crowley took off his glasses and miracled them away. His eyes were wide, wider than they were with his surprise at Aziraphale on the wall of Eden _._ Crowley stared for a moment, as though trying to decipher if what he felt was real, that this was truly his angel; in that small kiss Azirpahale had bestowed on him came a litany of overwhelming senses. It was a paper cut sized millisecond of spectacular feeling. Crowley spent a moment more to consider whose feelings they were and realised what Aziraphale had been trying to tell him. He stepped forwards, held Aziraphale by the sides of his face, and stood so close he could feel the angel’s breath against his mouth. He was searching the angel’s eyes, which had been darting to each of his intently since he removed his glasses. The sound of his palm gliding over Aziraphale’s face was surprisingly loud in the still of this moment. 

“May I-” Crowley began, but before he could articulate his question Aziraphale had already answered.

“Please.” Crowley closed the gap and _finally_ kissed his angel. 

Crowley moved like he was in syrup. He held the small of Aziraphale’s back (so warm under his palm, even through all these layers) and cradled his soft jaw. None of his dreams amounted to the real thing, the gentle crackling of divinity all around, comforting like sparks in a fire. When they parted, Crowley discovered he was panting.

“Are you alright, dear boy?” Aziraphale’s voice was softer than he had ever heard it, like the sea hushing against the shore. 

“Just fine, Angel.” His baritone was a stark rumble compared to Aziraphale's gentle tone. 

“Then, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather like to…” Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him again, curling his fingers into the short red hair at the nape of his neck and the other on his waist, sliding towards Crowley's back. Crowley wasn’t sure his corporeal form was supposed to go out of sync like this; heart racing, breath held, adrenaline coursing through him, he kissed him back. Once Aziraphale felt his reciprocation he parted their mouths. Crowley’s groan was stifled as he felt the angel’s tongue against his. 

They parted mouths with shaking breaths and continued to kiss slow and deep. Neither could bring themselves to let go. 

"I have a confession, my dear." Aziraphale sounded hesitant, so Crowley squeezed him. 

"What is it?" 

"You see, when we were on the wall, which is a memory I cherish I might add—" Aziraphale opened his wings onto this plane and Crowley gaped silently at their magnificence. "My wing touched yours, and now I bear a mark." The angel manipulated his left wing so it was forward, and parted the feathers at the base. Hidden beneath was a black feather, a stark coal smudge against cream, shining and sleek alongside fluffy downy feathers. 

Crowley felt like his whole body had coursed ice through its veins, and Aziraphale clutched his own heart. 

"Oh, no. Please no, dear boy. Don't feel like that, please." 

"It'sssss— _black._ " Crowley was astonished, how hadn’t he sensed that Aziraphale had this? Why hadn’t the missing feathers on his own wing warned him?

“Yes, and it’s quite alright!” Aziraphale smiled. “My black feather wasn’t what I wanted to tell you, I was leading up to that.” Crowley took a deep breath and tried to quell his panic, Aziraphale seemed to notice and continued. “I wanted to tell you sooner but I was afraid I would make a fool of myself. It sounds rather odd, but it is almost as though I have a connection to you through it.”

"You _what?"_

_"_ I can feel when you are going through particularly strong emotions. Like now, for instance.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and tapped his chest over his heart exactly where Crowley’s had been tight with panic. “I have felt it so often, and I was never sure but, at times… At times I was so _certain_ that I could feel your love for things —, sleep, wine… your love for _me_.” 

Crowley was stockstill, trying to suss out when, over the years, Aziraphale may have felt his love. (So many moments it could have been, when Aziraphale gasps as he sees particularly pretty patisserie in a baker’s window, or the way Aziraphale sometimes clutched his stomach and paused in thought as they walked together.) 

“Oh, do say something, Crowley. Please.” 

“I do have something.” Crowley brought out his own wings, carefully tilted his left wing forwards and reached up to the top, peeling back his lesser primary converts to reveal the scar of missing feathers beneath it. It was smooth and white. “I can feel it. You, it. I think it’s tied to you, or something. If you’re feeling something, I can usually tell anyway, but if it’s really strong, I can feel it here, but it’s not just here. It’s everything. All of my form behind or inside my corporation, not really sure how it works, but I can feel you everywhere. When you’re happy, when you’re sad.” Aziraphale crept forwards closely to see, fingertips daring to reach out. Crowley nodded and Aziraphale’s fingers traced the shape. Crowley’s wings shivered at the attention. “I can feel how you love all things, angel.” 

“Not all things, my dear. You.” 

Crowley felt that glorious pull behind his naval. It swarmed his stomach, made him feel light and floaty, and Aziraphale closed his eyes at the same time and pressed a hand to his own stomach.

________

They swapped stories for hours. The painful ones were particularly relieving to soothe. It turned out that Crowley’s devastating heartbreak was the reason Aziraphale managed to come back to Earth when he had been discorporated, a subject that made them both speak quiet and careful. In a way, Crowley was glad that Aziraphale could feel it. The trauma he had endured when he thought Aziraphale was gone was unfathomable. Crowley would fall a thousand times more, a million times harder, rather than have to deal with that pain again. He would rather deal with blinding pain for eternity than lose Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled, warm enough to bring Crowley back from the cold ideas, and held his hand. 

It wasn’t long before they got onto the subject of how many times Aziraphale had woken Crowley from one of his dreams. As it turned out, the answer was fairly often. The incident that stuck out most to Crowley was not long after the book shop opened.

“I honestly thought you were upset because someone tried to damn you to hell.”

“Oh my, this is embarrassing. I think what I woke you up with was jealousy… Not very becoming of an angel, I know. I could feel you… How should I put this? I could feel an utter sense of ecstasy and I wondered what it could be.”

Crowley felt that warmth swarm his stomach and dip. It was pleasant, like going down a hill fast in the Bentley. He chuckled and leaned forwards before, through old habits, stopping himself and holding back, he offered a smile instead. As though Aziraphale read his dear friend’s mind, he leaned in for another kiss. Aziraphale's mouth was gentle, his lips silk dry and soft against Crowley, who couldn't help but close his eyes even though he desperately wanted to watch how Aziraphale's face looked when he kissed. 

They stopped like that. After a long moment, they parted. 

"I've wished this for millenia, dear boy."

"What else have you been wishing for?" Crowley breathed, unwilling to move away. 

"To see your dreams." Aziraphale averted his eyes as though embarrassed. “Among quite a few other things.” Crowley's brows shot up. 

“And what are those, Angel?"

*

Crowley moved carefully, as though a sudden movement would wake him from this ecstacy. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Aziraphale had started leading once they reached the bed, and was even more amazed to find Aziraphale’s determination to peel back Crowley's clothes the human way. It was odd, Crowley thought, the difference it made; he found the hairs on his arms stood on end as the angel slid the material down his forearms. He felt burning hot, he must be, because Aziraphale's hands felt cool against his skin. Crowley's body responded in kind, nipples hardening and skin rippling as he shivered with any touch the angel bestowed upon him. 

The demon knew better than anyone that the angel liked to indulge in Earthly delights. He had watched, countless times, as Aziraphale sank his teeth into a soft bao bun, stared behind his sunglasses at the pink tongue as it glided across cinder toffee ice cream; the demon never once imagined that _he_ would be the something Aziraphale would want to take his time with and savour.

Aziraphale was kissing him delicately, everywhere he could. The hollow of his throat, the small space between barely visible ribs, the way Aziraphale was looking at Crowley was making him want to hide. He couldn’t pin down where he had seen it, in art galleries, theatres, restaurants or philharmonic halls, but applied to his corporeal form was too much. To Crowley’s dismay he found himself making involuntary gasping sighs and featherlight moans, especially as Aziraphale reached the dip beside his hip bone, paying particular attention with his tongue at the slope and following the natural movement of Crowley’s body downwards.

_“Angel—“_

“Yes, dear boy?”

“Come up here.” Aziraphale crawled up between Crowley’s parted thighs and Crowley groaned at the onslaught of sensation as the angel miracled away his own clothing as he moved. Inch by inch of too much glorious skin against Crowley’s, after all this time of waiting for something he thought would never happen. It burned in a way that was the opposite of pain. Aziraphale’s touch tingled and soothed. Crowley could see the angel’s hesitation at resting completely against him, so he smiled and squeezed his thighs around Aziraphale’s middle.

“It’s alright angel, I’d like you to,”

“It’s just, I haven’t… Made an effort in quite some time, and whenever I have I haven’t used it.”

Crowley felt a sudden pang of guilt, worried he was moving too fast. “You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” Aziraphale interrupted, then realising how abruptly he had interjected looked apologetic at how rude it was. “I have wanted to make love to you for quite some time.”

_“Ngk,”_ Crowley wriggled beneath the angel and grabbed at the duvet. “You trying to discorporate me?”

Aziraphale chuckled and Crowley started kissing his neck to distract away from any more confessions that would make him blush. Crowley had never been one for tasting or eating but this was certainly something he could get used to. He changed his effort as Aziraphale relaxed into it, after a moment he gently nudged Aziraphale’s arse with the back of his heels and the angel was urged forwards. 

Aziraphale’s wings burst into the room as he slid inside the demon, and Crowley’s back arched as he accommodated it. The two were already panting as Aziraphale laced their fingers and pinned Crowley’s hand to the bed, the other stroking Crowley’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Aziraphale’s face was framed by a halo of lustrous feathers. Crowley pressed their foreheads together, gently cradling the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, and tentatively reached forwards to touch the feathers, only to be rewarded with a soft _“Oh,”_ from the angel.

“Beautiful,” Crowley murmured, raking his fingers through the downy feathers until Aziraphale relaxed more and more into him. They were holding one another as they began to move together.

“Come with me.” Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt Aziraphale’s divinity surround him and let his own occult energy seep from his pores. Their bodies, physically, were as close as can be. What lay beyond, no human could comprehend; their essences met on another plane together. “Let me show you.”

Crowley fell downwards like a feather, floating in gentle waves. He held Aziraphale with him, dipped them both under a veil, sank together through a curtain of swirling blues and emerged onto the other side full of stars.

_I dreamt of this,_ he told Aziraphale without words. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s awe, and he pushed forward a small apology for not telling him about it on the park bench. He gathered stars like a handful of glitter and scattered them to settle. The shining dots of individual light pulsed in time with their corporeal forms and painted the most beautiful picture of a nebula, animated by the love they made. He felt Aziraphale’s reaction throughout his entire existence, all the senses and more. He could hear, taste, smell and feel it. Aziraphale’s joy tasted like honey and fresh bread, warm and enticing. His love was blindingly bright and the scent of the angel’s essence flooded Crowley’s; petrichor and viburnum. 

It was devastatingly beautiful, and overwhelming. Crowley wondered distantly if this was divine ecstasy, that he was barely grasping the magnitude of. Aziraphale was everything. Their love bled like paint through Crowley’s nebula, comet trails dancing around one another until there was no seam; they blended together in a purity so immense that Crowley had to snap back into his corporeal form. Crowley writhed. His belly was slick and smooth against Aziraphale’s own as he moaned and clutched the angel, whose steady rhythm began to slow, as tightly as possible.

Cream and gold wings were shivering against Crowley’s black feathers. He couldn’t recall his wings ever coming into existence without his conscious direction. 

____

  
  


There were no words to describe how he felt. In Crowley’s mind, to hold Aziraphale’s hand would have been more than enough to satisfy him. What had just happened was beyond anything either of them expected, and after, for an indiscernible amount of time, they had lay side by side, holding hands and staring at the ceiling. 

“I still have so much to show you.” Crowley idly let his thumb gently smooth across the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

“And I you. You know, we have all the time in the world.” Aziraphale sighed contentedly. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I’ve saved all 4 of hollow-head’s art pieces into a link-share folder on google drive. 💜
> 
> https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1biI1_IQ7jIGA4RwOmflkKeADcQ3jlUJT


End file.
